


As Seen In Shadow

by MoraLeeWright



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Badass Mikasa Ackerman, Consensual Sex, Don't copy to another site, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Mikasa is just in the wrong place at the wrong time, Mikasa knows what she wants, Mikasa's Horny, Sexual Tension, This is not a voyeurism kink fic, Unresolved Sexual Tension, everyone's horny, levimika - Freeform, rivamika, so much tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:28:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,629
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24837691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoraLeeWright/pseuds/MoraLeeWright
Summary: Had she some honor, she would put the Incident from her mind and refuse its replay. She wouldn’t think about the undone top buttons of his shirt, nor would she fantasize how the sweat on his neck and chest might taste on her tongue. But she does. And she’s not the slightest bit ashamed.Or, the gradual undoing of Mikasa following a midnight stroll, in which she unwittingly catches two people having sex. It would have been nothing, had one of those people not been her captain. It would have been nothing, had he not caught her staring.
Relationships: Mikasa Ackerman & Levi, Mikasa Ackerman/Levi
Comments: 31
Kudos: 378





	As Seen In Shadow

**Author's Note:**

> In these trying times, in this uncertain world, have some Rivamika smut. Needless to say, this is...incredibly NSFW. I'd say don't read it at work, but maybe more apt would be don't read it during a Zoom call...?

For the second time in the span of their fifteen-minute spar, Jean’s knuckles connect with the undefended plane of Mikasa’s jaw. An easy shot, too, as if she’s only just started fighting yesterday and forgotten basic defense.

 _“Fuck,”_ Jean hisses, eyes going wide—apologetic, surprised. Confused. “Mikasa, I’m so sorry.”

Mikasa works the throbbing lower half of her face, holding up a hand in both a call for pause and to fend off further apologies. “S’fine. Head’s not in it.”

“We should stop,” Jean offers, fidgeting with the wrappings on his hands and wrists—a six-foot boy. “This is...you’re not…”

_You’re not yourself._

She’s been hit in practice before. _He’s_ hit her in practice before. But those two jabs to her face were so…

“Just a little distracted,” she mumbles. In actuality, she’s been _a little distracted_ for nearly a week now. Small things, like crossing buckles on her gear, stumbling out of a landing, losing her temper over menial things. Armin had made the unfortunate (albeit honest) mistake of offering his outsider’s opinion on what could be ailing her—a combination of stress and lack of sleep, and perhaps a bit of frustration over the state of their tenuous relationship with Eren. In so many not so kind words, she had told him to stuff it and mind his own business. They’d yet to reconcile.

But Mikasa knows the crux of her problem. And it _is_ a problem, as all secrets are. The biggest irony is it really shouldn’t be _her_ secret. And yet it hounds her day and night. The _memory_ of it...

The Incident had occurred a week ago: It had been well past midnight, and her ongoing battle with insomnia (which had reached “chronic” status) had sent her away from her tent and on a circuitous path through the landscape surrounding their encampment. With no care or idea of where to go, she’d found herself dawdling near the forest's edge where the ground had been soft—a mix of sand and soil that had her chucking her boots and continuing barefoot. Beneath the choir of night creatures and the drone of the distant shore, she had been virtually soundless.

So, Captain Levi had not heard her approach. Neither had the woman he was fucking into a tree.

The automatic response had been to cover her eyes, to turn away, both from the obviously private—and _intimate—_ moment she’d just unwittingly stumbled upon and to spare herself the shame of being caught as a witness. Her initial hesitation, that brief pause between realization and shock (because it wasn’t just two people fucking in the forest, it was _Captain Levi fucking in the forest),_ had lasted too long, apparently; just as Mikasa had poised to turn on her heel, Levi’s slate eyes had lifted from beneath the shroud of his dark fringe and locked with her own, startled gaze _._ Heat had seared from her neck and across her entire face, the sudden pound of her pulse in her ears nearly drowning out the crude sound of flesh and fabric and breath commingling not five meters away.

The ensuing moment could have been a heartbeat or ten minutes. Their eyes had remained tethered, and despite herself, Mikasa had felt utterly pinned beneath his stare, unable to finish the 180-degree pivot away, waiting for his reaction to her intrusion.

It was the woman (faceless, nameless, even now in memory) who broke their staring contest with her muffled orgasm. Levi’s gray eyes had snapped away and Mikasa had all but bolted from the scene. She hadn’t dallied, heading straight for her tent. The encounter, needless to say, had done nothing for her insomnia.

Even now, filthy from sparring, Mikasa’s cheeks burn with the memory of her captain’s exerted breath, his taut jaw, the almost wild flare of his eyes in the shadow. Had she some honor, she would put the Incident from her mind and refuse its replay. She wouldn’t think about the undone top buttons of his shirt and how appealing a look it was on him, nor would she fantasize how the sweat on his neck and chest might taste on her tongue. But she does. And she’s not the slightest bit ashamed. 

“Do you want to talk?” Jean’s brown eyes are large and warm, brow furrowing in a sincere way. Ernest.

_Sure thing, Jean. I caught our captain balls-deep in some random woman one night and it just stayed on my mind. Always knew he was a pervert. But I guess that makes two of us considering I can’t stop thinking about him. He didn’t even react, Jean. I think he would have let me stay there the whole time and watch while he fucked that woman, and I can’t stop thinking about that..._

She says none of that, opting for a careful divulging of the truth—like her insomnia, not being able to think straight, small bumbles throughout the day. She even brings up Eren, barely grazing _that_ tender topic. He buys it, though it’s not like she’s trying to swindle anything. She manages to conclude their session without wholly fleeing.

Later that night, one hand between her legs, Mikasa realizes (with horror) that she had been dangerously close to propositioning her friend. She allows herself to acknowledge the festering frustration in her gut, the unscratched itch that would have remain unscratched even if Kirstein had joined her. She pushes aside the various, hypothetical reactions Jean might have displayed had she asked him to sleep with her. Instead, she imagines her captain’s furrowed brow and the subtle parting of his mouth. She comes picturing his large hands, gripping and strong upon the tilted hips of his late night paramour. 

* * *

There is some benefit to a long-standing rivalry; one can openly ogle their opponent and no one will think it is anything other than silent resentment, or perhaps ill-intended plotting.

“Be nice,” Armin murmurs, eyes flicking between his friend and the retreating back of their captain.

Mikasa, roused from her plotting that may or may not have been ill-intended, utters a dignified “huh?”

“I don’t know what he’s done this time to annoy you, but try not to be so obvious about your desire to throttle him.”

Mikasa swallows, contemplates her response, and then keeps her mouth shut. She schools her features, ignoring the new-found image of wrapping her fingers around the pale column of the captain’s throat. She doesn’t give much thought for how long she intends to entertain lascivious thoughts of her superior officer, nor does she think to suppress what she’d witnessed that night. The lull in activity surrounding Marley operations has left her with more time to spend in her head, anyway.

Subsequent sparring sessions with Jean are relatively painless (in all senses of the term), with him oblivious to the turmoil in her mind, or at least pretending he is. The urge to proposition him doesn’t surface again, and she makes due with her hand. The coil of tension in her chest and gut seems to relax for a time, especially when Levi leaves to accompany Hange for another Marley summit and she doesn’t have to see his stupid face for a time or think about how it had looked mid-coitus. But the itch remains, despite his absence. If anything, it intensifies.

* * *

“Are you ill or is your head just so firmly up your ass you’ve forgotten how to function?” are the first words Captain Levi says to her in...a while.

The Marley trip didn’t go well, if the shorty’s sour mood is anything to go by. Still, she finds bearing the brunt of his temper to be a bit unfair. Especially since there is an audience.

She and Jean had been drilling a squad of cadets on a series of defensive maneuvers for the past thirty minutes—basics, key movements but ones she could do in her sleep. And given her continued insomnia, she practically _had_ been running the drills half-awake.

Then Levi and team had returned.

It really was absurd, her heightened awareness of him. She’d only sent a casual glance up, sensing the forms of newcomers passing along their training circle. But her eyes had locked with a pair of grays. He’d halted, letting the rest of his group, Hange et al, pass him by, never once relinquishing Mikasa’s gaze. Then Jean had punched her in the jaw.

“Hundred soldiers my ass if this is how you’re fighting, Ackerman,” Levi drawls, ignoring the group of wide-eyed cadets, eyes are trained on Mikasa. With that practiced mien of indifference, he eyes her appearance, gaze snagging on key areas and silently ridiculing them—the dust and dirt on her knees and elbows, _filthy;_ the buckles on her uniform she’s somehow managed to bungle again, _sloppy;_ the unconcealed irritation on her face, the way her mouth wars with the urge to _not_ insult him in front of the cadets. _Brat._

And then his cold, pewter gaze locks with hers. Mikasa’s throat is suddenly dry. “Take a break, Kirstein,” he says with a jerk of his chin, keeping his eyes on Mikasa. She senses Jean’s hesitation beside her, then his deliberate step away—he’d follow orders, sure, but he wouldn’t hop-to-it like a fervid cadet.

So, what, was this retribution? A public dressing-down? Levi takes off his jacket, letting it roll off his shoulders before folding it and setting it down out of the way. The way he moves, the uppity poise, as if teaching her a lesson is taking time away from more important things he’d rather be doing. Like cleaning. Or making tea. Or fucking people in the woods.

He’s midway through some droning castigation, nimble fingers rolling up the sleeves of his shirt to expose his forearms, when Mikasa lets her fist fly for his face. He barely swerves in time, lecture effectively silenced.

A gasp rises from the crowd—probably Jean, given the note of exasperation. Because that’s...that’s not what you do. This was dirty fighting.

And _oh,_ she’s really done it. Levi doesn’t balk, doesn’t call off the training—not that it could ever have been called that in the first place—and there’s a visible shift in his posture, the indifferent look in his eyes replaced with a deadly, deadly gleam. Mikasa’s gut clenches. It’s not an unpleasant feeling.

Levi moves to grapple her legs, trying to get her down, trying to end this _display._ But Mikasa strikes again, ignoring the murmur of discontent from the younger cadets as her elbow connects with Levi’s chin. His teeth clatter. Another gasp from the group.

Aside from her initial offensive strikes, Mikasa quickly changes to defense, moving with him, building a rhythm that gets their limbs tangled and her body against his. They’ve forsaken their unsporting start, moving in tandem now. It’s a dance, though not one bit of it is for the benefit of their spectators, who are ignorant to the internal battle humanity’s strongest soldiers have just waged on each other; to them, this is a treat, a demonstration of what _real_ fighting looks like, and they ooh and cheer and chortle in aw through the whole thing. She hears Jean mutter something to one of the cadets, the words indiscernible, though he’s obviously talking her up.

Levi’s attempts to get her down eventually win out when his leg makes a successful sweep behind her knees, bringing her tumbling to her back. She doesn’t stay exposed for long, using the momentum to get him rolled beneath her. They’re both exhausted, breathing hard, and it’s all she can do to keep him pinned.

 _This._ This is how she wants him. On his back, chest heaving, brow damp with sweat, dark hair mussed. His eyes are predatory, focused, the look sending a jolt straight to her loins. She’s got his hips between her thighs. If she arched her back a bit and rolled her ass out she’d have him against the searing heat of her, against the place that had grown warmer and wetter as their little scuffle had progressed—

“I turn my back for one minute,” comes a boisterous voice, only a tad amused. Hange steps into the training area and every spine of every soldier stiffens, even Jean’s, the space a cacophony of fists against chests and boots stamping to attention. “Burning off some steam, Levi?” An innocent question—they’re training, this is training, nothing out of the norm. At all.

Levi’s hands are warm and firm against Mikasa’s waist as he pulls her from him, just managing to avoid _flinging_ her. She stands too quickly, her head swimming. Levi retrieves his jacket without a backward glance, mumbling something about lessons and insubordination to Hange. Mikasa doesn’t stick around to watch them leave, utilizing the excited hum and clamor of the distracted cadets to slip away.

* * *

Two hours and a cold shower later and Mikasa’s pulse is still hammering.

After practically pacing a trench in the middle of her small tent, she seriously debates marching over to Jean’s tent and asking him to spar. The sky is turning orange, but they still have at least thirty minutes of light left.

No, don’t bring Jean into this. A walk, perhaps. She could take a walk, then maybe a run, avoiding the route she’d chosen _that_ night. Avoid the trees entirely. Yes, that’s what she’ll do. A long walk to clear her head. At the very least it will keep her from digging a channel into the ground with all her pacing.

Mikasa shrugs on a light jacket over her sleepwear before shoving bare feet into her boots. She takes a swig of the tea that had gone cold and untouched by her bedside—a floral, lightly sweet concoction Armin had brought her as a peace offering—before striding for the tent flap.

Her shoulder collides with the angular edge of someone’s jaw.

Levi curses and stumbles back, brow furrowing as he casts his steel eyes over her. Mikasa feels a little like she did...that night...flustered and frozen in her stance, not sure if she should bolt or stay put. Levi makes the decision for her, ushering them both back into the dark of her tent.

“The fuck are you doing, brat,” he hisses just as she says “what are you doing here?”

Mikasa presses on first, annoyed by how _difficult_ it is for her to say, “I’m sorry.” He continues to rub at his jaw, practically advertising the allure of it. Mikasa swallows. “I shouldn’t have been there that night. I’m sorry I…” She gesticulates, as if the motion will make up for her lack of vocabulary.

“No you’re not,” he chuckles, a mirthless sound that sends a flutter through her gut. “No you’re not.” His eyes are two, burning stars in the dim light of the tent. It feels too warm in the cramped space. “Is that where you were going?” He jerks his chin, just like he’d done to Jean. “Just now?”

The flutter turns to a solid grip. She’s embarrassed, and a little bit insulted by the insinuation. “What? I—no, Captain, I—“

And then he’s in her space, breath warm and clean, sweeping goosebumps along her neck. “Don’t. I’ll leave if you want,” his fingers hover over the bend of her waist, barely touching, “but if I stay, there are no formalities.”

Mikasa’s knees almost buckle with the sheer _want_ blooming inside her. The fading sunlight burns red through the cocoon of her tent, catching on the sharp planes and angles of his face. There’s a thundering in her ears, her chest thudding with the erratic pound of her pulse. Perhaps, if she hadn’t already been so riled, she would have let him touch her; would have taken her time touching him. But instead, she grasps his face and pulls his mouth to hers.

The thundering has risen to a roar, and she’s quite sure she’d float up, up, up if Levi’s arms weren’t banded around her middle. He tastes like tea, his tongue hot and cunning against hers. A reflexive moan issues from her throat when he cards his fingers into her hair and cradles the back of her head in his hand. He’s an alloy of fervent and considerate, fast and slow, and she doesn’t know whether to speed him up or slow him down.

In her stupor, Mikasa manages to locate his belt, but before she can get a finger hooked in the buckle he slides the jacket from her shoulders, pulling her hands away. Then he’s turning her around, hands coursing along her hips, her abdomen, under her breasts, his mouth warm and insistent upon the side of her neck. And _Walls_ she’s not complaining. She arches into him, relishing the hardness of him against her ass. He hisses at the contact, pressing forward in answer. His right hand leaves her breast to descend between her legs, wasting no time in slipping beneath the fabric of her sleep shorts to find the throbbing heat there.

 _“Fuck,_ you’re wet,” he groans, and the gruff rumble of his voice makes her knees feel weak again. He places open-mouthed kisses along her neck, her exposed shoulder, all while slipping two fingers along the tender crux of her. Another sound escapes her, then another, and she can’t help the slow undulating of her hips against his hand.

Perhaps he’d held that woman like this, spoken to her like this. Did he know her? Had that night been the first or one of many? _Why_ was this important to her? With great effort, she turns herself around in Levi’s arms. The change doesn’t seem to phase him, and his mouth quickly finds the point where her shoulder and neck meet. Mikasa, panting, maintains enough presence of mind to retort, “take off your shirt.”

“Take off yours,” he mumbles against her flesh, hands dragging up her ass to slip beneath the thin fabric of her night shirt.

She captures his wrists behind her back. “I asked first.” She dodges his mouth, dragging her teeth along his jawline. “No formalities. You aren’t my captain right now. Take. Off. Your. Shirt.”

He does. And...and she’s _seen_ him shirtless. Countless times. But fucking _Walls—_

Then he’s kissing her, pausing to pull her shirt off her head before kissing her again. They lower together onto her bed, him above her, along her, hips perfectly framed between her thighs. She undulates beneath him, not the slightest bit chagrined to admit he’s worked her up good enough that she could come just by rocking their clothed pelvises together. As if knowing this, Levi sits back onto his heels, pries one boot and then the other from her cooperative feet, chucking them aside. The image of Levi handling anything with desperate carelessness is oddly attractive.

There’s a pause as he trails the burning gray of his eyes along her exposed chest, observing her breasts, her collar. Mikasa’s too damned aroused to be shy. Her nipples pebble beneath his stare. She _wants_ him to look. Then he catches her gaze, holds it while he slides her shorts down her legs, underwear and all. She hadn’t realized how sensitive the inside of a person’s ankle could be until he drags his lips along it. Mikasa jerks, a hiss stealing from her lungs. It could be a trick of the low light, but she swears she sees him smirk. Then he’s leaning forward, on his elbows, hands grasping her thighs and hauling her hips to his face—

No, _fuck,_ wait, she’ll fall apart before he even gets his mouth on her. “I’ll come if you do that,” she stutters, grasping at his forearms.

Gray eyes lift beneath the messy strands of his fringe. “Is that bad?”

“...no…”

“Tell you what,” he settles back onto his elbows, breath hot between her thighs, “I’ll make you come, and if you’re not a brat,” his tongue swipes along her folds, quick, “if you’re not a brat I’ll make you come again.” He licks her again, dragging it out a bit more. Mikasa gasps, hips bucking into his firm hands. When he speaks again his voice is hoarse, a whisper, “is that ok, _Mikasa?”_

 _“Yes—”_ she breathes, and when he sucks on her clit the word morphs into a strangled keen as she comes.

He’s saying something, and she’s still writhing from her high but manages to hear, “are you…?”

Somehow, _miraculously,_ she gleans his meaning and nods _._ The tonic she drinks, the one most girls do after they bleed. _Tonic. Contraception. Good._ Levi nods in turn, having received his confirmation, before settling himself between her legs. She doesn’t feel boneless—rather _invigorated,_ really—and she all but grapples him to her, arms and legs twining with his in a parody of their earlier tangle on the sparring mat. There’s no preamble, no hesitation, and he slides into her effortlessly.

Ah, yes, _this._ Something purrs and hums with satisfaction in the deep recesses of Mikasa’s psyche. An itch finally addressed. Neither of them moves, both adjusting, feeling. It’s not too dark, she knows he can see well enough, and pleasure of a different kind flutters in her chest at the absence of his habitual detachment—his brow is drawn, mouth parted just the slightest. He pulls her knee up to his ribs, gently, and then he peers down at her. They breathe. A beat passes.

She moves first, a slow rock of her hips. Levi’s breath gutters, just the slightest hitch of sound escaping on the tail-end. The muscles of his waist curl and lengthen against the vise of her thighs as he begins to move. The pace is slow, achingly slow, but each surge leaves her panting, burning for the next controlled thrust. At this rate she can feel every bit of him, every ridge and stretch. They could have forgone the sex entirely and opted to spar outside and it wouldn’t have felt this intense. This _consuming._

Another roll of his hips and Mikasa’s head falls back, a quavering groan escaping her. His mouth finds her neck, teeth grazing along her jugular, which sparks a dissociated tingle in her lower back. He shifts his arms, lowering himself so their chests touch, restricting the movement of their hips some yet bringing them _closer._ Mikasa’s head lolls to attention again, her nose grazing his cheek. She can feel his breath against her ear.

This is...this is not at all what she had been expecting. This is intimate, this is fevered, this is _fucking amazing._ Forget the sordid fantasies she’d wracked up this past week; a moment ago she’d fully expected they’d be fucking half-clothed into the dirt, not lying in a sensual tangle on her bed.

There’s a change in Levi’s breath then. A hitch. His head falls forward against her shoulder, hands tightening upon her thighs. She savors the sounds he makes, the deep huff of his breath, the occasional grunt. Savors how their bodies fit together, like this, move like this. Mikasa brings her other knee up along his side, hooking her heels together behind his back. The new angle drives a delightful little sound from him—almost a _whine—_ and she clenches around him in the hope he’ll make it again.

He moves instead, arm curving beneath her to pull her against him as they roll in tandem to seated. He settles her in his lap, lavishing her breasts with his mouth, his hands. Mikasa arches into him, taking control of their movement. Things are quicker now, purposeful, the tent filling with the sound of their breath and bodies. She wants to look at him, wants to see him this way, so she takes his face in her hands, lifting it from her breasts. His eyes are sleepy but keen, his hair mussed and sticking to his forehead in places, making him look far more attractive than he has a right to. Mikasa kisses his parted lips, seeking his tongue with her own and swallowing his groan.

“Touch yourself,” he mumbles against her mouth. She does. His jaw is tight now, eyes fluttering closed. As much as she wants to see him, watch how his brow furrows in concentration, she can barely focus with the mounting pressure in her lower belly. The fullness of him, the familiar press of her own fingers against her clit, the calloused grip of his warm hands against her hips, all spur her toward that precipice. Gone is the languid pace, replaced by the voracious need she’d anticipated in the first place. He presses sloppy kisses along her jaw, capturing her sighs and moans with his mouth, sharing her breath.

Mikasa comes hard, spine snaking, and she’s still writhing from the high when he throws her onto the bed and hammers into her. Each thrust is more sporadic than the last—shorter, quicker—and _Walls_ she’d come again if he kept going. But he lasts for one, two more thrusts before stiffening against her, spilling himself on her thighs.

They lie sprawled on her bed, panting in the dark. Levi moves first. It’s well dark now, but she can sense him fumbling for his clothes, his boots. She sits up on reflex. “You’re leaving?” She wants to catch the words mid-air and stuff them back into her mouth.

He stills. “Do you…” There’s a rustling sound, the clatter of his belt. Then his tone shifts, like he’s changing topics. “Do you have a light?”

Mikasa wonders on the initial start of his sentence as she blindly pats around her side table for the matchbook there. The burst of flame is like a sun in their small orbit, and they both flinch. “I just...you don’t have to…” Oh for _fuckssake. Just let him leave, stop rambling._ Awareness creeps in, and she has the urge to pull the tangled sheet over her exposed front.

“I don’t think it would go over well if we both stumbled out of your tent in the light of day,” he murmurs, taking the match from her fingers. Gently, lingering. He lights the squat candle at her bedside, filling the tent with a warmer light. 

“That night—”

“Irrelevant,” he says, pulling on his shirt. His voice is soft, though not for volume’s sake. The softness is almost harder to read than the mask he usually wears.

 _Just let him leave._ “That girl…” _Stop rambling._

He’s got his boots on now, fully dressed, but he makes no move to leave her tent. He inhales as if to reply, but there’s a pause before he speaks. “I don’t…” he begins, clears his throat, “that wasn’t…”

“Relevant?” she offers. She shouldn’t care, really she shouldn’t. He certainly wouldn’t be the first to seek a one-off encounter with another warm body. She shouldn’t care, even if she’s one of those warm bodies.

He makes a short, affirmative noise. Then he stands, only half facing her, as if preparing to leave but wanting to say something else. She can barely see his face, even with the candlelight.

“If you want to...come back…” She sounds young to her ears, so at odds with the person she’d been just a moment ago.

His eyes glitter in the shadow, locking with hers, making her chest flutter. He inclines his head, and Mikasa isn’t sure if it’s to better regard her or to impart some kind of look—maybe it’s a nod. Maybe it’s all at once. “Or,” he begins, voice a murmur, “you could come to me. Your tent is a bit small.”

There’s no insomnia that night, no restlessness. Mikasa sleeps better than she has in weeks. _Months._ The following night she leaves her tent for another late-night walk; this time however, she knows where she’s going. 

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> First, to my readers of Just Until The Storm Has Gone, _sorry_ for being MIA for so long. Especially for leaving you hanging without the final chapter. This oneshot is my apology fic and aperitif before the final JUTSHG chapter.
> 
> Obviously, this global crisis has sent everyone in varying states of disarray and I wasn't exempt. But I'm wonderfully overwhelmed by the many, many supportive comments I've received both here and on Tumblr. For what it's worth, the final chapter of JUTSHG is almost ready to post, if you're even still willing to read it. I love you all, and hope you and your loved ones remain as safe and healthy as possible in this time. Much love, Mora.


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